f  EXJIBRB  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL,  PRESIDENT. 


MR.ANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAV 

CECILY,  VIRGINIA  AND  ROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNEROOMPANY 


^f  ^*s&^£*^&iC*s\^ 


THE 

POTATO  CHILD 
OTHERS 


BY 

MRS.  CHARLES  J.  WOODBURY 

FRONTISPIECE  AFTER  A 
BAS-RELIEF  BY  ELIZABETH  FERREA 

If  only  our  help 

could  begin  as  soon  as 

our  hindrance  does 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1910 

by  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

San  Francisco 


CONTENTS 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 
A  NAZARETH  CHRISTMAS  . 


PACK 

I 

15 
23 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

IT  WAS  certain  that  Elsie  had  a  very  hard 
and  solitary  life. 
When    Miss  Amanda  had  selected  her 
from  among  the  girls  at  "The  Home,"  the 
motherly  matron  felt  sorry. 

"  She  is  a  tender-hearted  little  thing,  and  a  kind 
word  goes  a  great  way  with  Elsie." 

Miss  Amanda  looked  at  the  matron  as  if  she 
were  speaking  Greek,  and  said  nothing.  It  was 
quite  plain  that  few  words,  either  kind  or  unkind, 
would  pass  Miss  Amanda's  lips.  But  "The 
Home"  was  more  than  full,  and  Miss  Amanda 
Armstrong  was  a  person  well  known  as  the  lead- 
ing dressmaker  in  the  city,  a  person  of  some 
money;  not  obliged  to  work  now  if  she  didn't 
wish  to.  "  If  cold,  she  is  at  least  perfectly  just," 
they  all  said. 

So  Elsie  went  to  work  for  Miss  Amanda,  and 
lived  in  the  kitchen.  She  waited  on  the  door, 
washed  the  dishes,  cleaned  the  vegetables,  and  set 
the  table  (Miss  Amanda  lived  alone,  and  ate  in 
the  kitchen).  Every  Friday  she  swept  the  house. 
Her  bed  was  in  a  little  room  in  the  back  attic. 

When  she  came,  Miss  Amanda  handed  her  a 
dress  and  petticoat,  and  a  pair  of  shoes.  "  These 
are  to  last  six  months,"  she  said,  "  and  see  you 
keep  yourself  clean."  She  gave  her  also  one 
change  of  stockings  and  underclothes. 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

"  Here  is  your  room ;  you  do  not  need  a  light 
to  go  to  bed  by,  and  it  is  not  healthy  to  sleep 
under  too  many  covers." 

It  wasn't  so  much  what  Miss  Amanda  did  to 
her,  for  she  never  struck  her,  nor  in  any  way  ill- 
treated  her;  nor  was  it  so  much  what  she  said,  for 
she  said  almost  nothing.  But  she  said  it  all  in 
commands,  and  the  loving  little  Elsie  was  just 
driven  into  herself. 

She  had  had  a  darling  mother,  full  of  love  and 
tenderness,  and  Elsie  would  say  to  herself,  cc  I 
must  not  forget  the  things  mama  told  me,  *  Love 
can  never  die,  and  kind  words  can  never  die/ ' 
But  she  had  no  one  to  love,  and  she  never  heard 
any  kind  words ;  so  she  was  a  bit  worried.  "  I 
shall  forget  how  kind  words  sound,  and  I  shall 
forget  how  to  love,"  sighed  the  little  girl. 

She  used  to  long  for  a  doll  or  cat  or  some- 
thing she  could  call  her  own  and  talk  to.  She 
asked  Miss  Amanda,  who  said  <c  No."  She  added, 
<c  I  have  no  money  to  give  for  such  foolishness  as 
a  doll,  and  a  cat  would  eat  its  head  off." 

Miss  Amanda  had  been  blessed  with  no  little- 
girl  time.  When  she  was  young,  she  always  had 
been  forced  to  work  hard,  and  she  thought  it  was 
no  worse  for  Elsie  than  it  had  been  for  herself. 
I  don't  suppose  it  was;  but  one  looking  in  on 
these  two  could  not  but  feel  for  both  of  them. 

Elsie  would  try  to  talk  to  herself  a  little  at 
night,  but  it  was  cheerless.  Then  she  would  lift 
up  her  knee,  and  draw  the  sheet  about  it  for  a 
hood,  and  call  it  a  little  girl.  She  named  it  Nancy 
Pullam,  and  would  try  to  love  that;  but  it  almost 
broke  her  back  when  she  tried  to  hug  Nancy. 
"  Oh,  if  I  had  something  to  be  good  to" !  she  said. 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

So  she  began  greeting  the  ladies,  when  she 
opened  the  door,  with  a  cheerful  little  "  Good- 
morning  "  or  "Good  afternoon." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that/'  said  Miss  Amanda,  "it 
looks  forward  and  pert.  It  is  their  place  to  say 
c  Good  morning/  not  yours.  You  have  no  occasion 
to  speak  to  your  betters,  and,  anyway,  children 
should  be  seen  and  not  heard." 

One  day,  a  never-forgotten  day,  she  went  down 
cellar  to  the  bin  of  potatoes  to  select  some  for 
dinner.  She  was  sorting  them  over  and  laying 
out  all  of  one  size,  when  she  took  up  quite  a 
long  one,  and  lo!  it  had  a  little  face  on  it  and 
two  eyes  and  a  little  hump  between  for  a  nose 
and  a  long  crack  below  that  made  a  very  pretty 
mouth. 

Elsie  looked  at  it  joyfully.  "  It  will  make  me  a 
child,"  she  said,  "  no  matter  if  it  has  no  arms  or 
legs ;  the  face  is  everything." 

She  carefully  placed  it  at  the  end  of  the  bin, 
and  whenever  she  could  slip  away  without  neglect- 
ing her  work  would  run  down  cellar  and  talk 
softly  to  it. 

But  one  day  her  potato-child  was  gone !  Elsie's 
heart  gave  a  big  jump,  and  then  fell  like  lead,  and 
seemed  to  lie  perfectly  still ;  but  it  commenced  to 
beat  again,  beat  and  ache,  beat  and  ache! 

She  tried  to  look  for  the  changeling;  but  the 
tears  made  her  so  that  she  couldn't  see  very  well ; 
and  there  were  so  many  potatoes!  She  looked 
every  moment  she  had  a  chance  all  the  next  day, 
and  cried  a  great  deal.  "  I  can  never  be  real  happy 
again,"  she  thought. 

"  Don't  cry  any  more,"  said  Miss  Amanda,  "it 
does  not  look  well  when  you  open  the  door  for 

[3] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

my  customers.  You  have  enough  to  eat  and  wear ; 
what  more  do  you  want  ?  " 

"Something  to  love,"  said  Elsie,  but  not 
very  loud. 

She  tried  not  to  cry  again,  and  then  she  felt 
worse  not  to  shed  tears,  when,  perhaps,  her  dear 
little  potato-child  was  eaten  up. 

Two  days  after,  as  she  was  still  searching,  a 
little  piece  of  white  paper  in  the  far  dark  corner 
attracted  her  attention.  She  went  over  and  lifted 
it  up.  Behind  it  was  a  hole,  and  partly  in  and 
partly  out  of  the  hole  lay  her  potato-child.  I 
think  a  rat  had  dragged  it  out  of  the  bin.  She 
hugged  it  to  her  heart,  and  cried  for  joy. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  you  have  come  back  to  me, 
you  have  come  back !  And  then  it  seemed  as  if 
the  pink  eyes  of  the  potato-child  looked  up  into 
Elsie's  in  affectionate  gratitude;  and  it  became 
plain  to  Elsie  that  her  child  loved  her.  She  was 
so  thankful  that  she  even  kissed  the  little  piece 
of  white  paper.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  would 
never  have  found  my  child.  I  mean  to  keep  you 
always,"  she  said,  and  she  wrapped  it  about  her 
potato-child,  and  put  them  in  her  bosom.  "We 
must  never  be  parted  again,"  she  murmured. 

At  supper,  with  many  misgivings,  she  un- 
wrapped her  treasure  for  Miss  Amanda,  and  asked 
if  she  could  keep  it  as  her  own.  "  I  won't  eat 
any  potato  for  dinner  tomorrow  if  you  will  give 
me  this,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  answered  Miss  Amanda,  "I  don't 
know  as  it  will  do  any  harm;  why  do  you 
want  it?" 

"  It  is  my  potato-child.    I  want  to  love  it." 

"  See  you  lose  no  time,  then,"  said  Miss  Amanda. 

[4] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

And  afterward,  Elsie  never  called  the  potato 
//,  but  always  "my  child/* 

She  found  a  fragment  of  calico,  large  enough 
for  a  dress  and  skirt,  with  enough  over,  a  queer, 
three-cornered  piece,  which  she  pinned  about  the 
unequal  shoulders  for  a  shawl.  Upon  the  bonnet 
she  worked  for  days. 

All  this  sewing  was  a  great  joy  to  her.  Last 
of  all,  she  begged  a  bit  of  frayed  muslin  from 
the  sweepings  for  a  night-dress.  Then  she  could 
undress  her  baby  every  night. 

She  must  have  heard  a  tiny  tuber-voice,  for  she 
said,  "  Now  I  can  never  forget  the  sound  of  lov- 
ing words,  and  the  world  is  full  of  joy." 

Elsie  had  a  candle-box  in  her  room,  with  the 
cover  hung  on  hinges.  It  served  the  double  pur- 
pose of  a  trunk  and  a  seat.  She  put  her  child's 
clothes  and  the  scrap  of  white  paper  in  this  box. 
In  the  daytime  she  let  her  child  sit  upon  the 
window-sill  so  she  could  see  the  blue  sky;  but 
when  the  weather  grew  colder  she  took  her  down 
to  the  kitchen  each  morning,  lest  she  should  suffer. 

Sometimes,  Miss  Amanda  watched  her  closely. 
"She  does  her  work  well,  but  she  is  a  queer 
thing.  She  makes  me  uneasy,"  she  thought. 

Christmas  was  coming.  Elsie  and  her  mother 
had  always  loved  Christmas,  and  had  invariably 
given  some  gift  to  each  other.  After  their  stock- 
ings were  hung  side  by  side,  Christmas  Eve,  her 
mother  would  take  her  in  her  lap  and  tell  her  the 
Christmas  story.  So  now  it  was  a  great  mercy  for 
Elsie  that  she  had  her  child  to  work  for. 

One  day,  when  she  had  scrubbed  the  pantry 
floor  unusually  clean,  Miss  Amanda  gave  her  the 
privilege  of  the  rag  barrel.  This  resulted  in  a  new 

[5] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

Christmas  suit  of  silk  and  velvet  for  baby ;  and 
this  she  made. 

When  Elsie  left  "The  Home"  the  matron 
had  given  her  a  little  needle-book  containing  a 
spool  of  thread  and  thimble  for  a  good-by  present. 
These  now  came  into  good  play.  She  used  the 
lamp  shears  to  cut  with. 

When  all  was  done  the  babe  looked  beautiful, 
except  that  it  had  no  stockings.  It  had  not  even 
legs.  "  I'll  make  her  a  wooden  leg,  and  let  her 
be  a  cripple,  then  I  shall  love  her  all  the  better." 

But  after  she  had  made  the  leg,  and  a  very 
good  one,  too,  she  hadn't  the  heart  to  break  the 
skin  of  her  child,  and  push  it  in. 

"I'll  make  the  stockings  without  legs,"  she 
said,  and  so  she  did. 

Elsie  was  very  careful  never  to  let  her  child 
see,  or  mention  before  her,  how  busy  she  was  for 
Christmas. 

She  felt  very  sorry  for  Miss  Amanda,  and  wished 
she  had  something  to  give  her,  but  she  could  think 
of  nothing  except  the  piece  of  white  paper  she 
found  with  her  potato-child.  The  afternoon  be- 
fore Christmas  she  took  it  from  the  candle-box, 
and  smoothed  it  out  upon  the  cover.  It  had  some 
writing  upon  one  side.  Elsie  thought  it  was  very 
pretty  writing — it  had  so  many  flourishes.  Elsie 
could  not  read  it,  of  course,  but  she  hoped  Miss 
Amanda  would  like  it. 

How  should  she  give  it  to  her?  She  didn't 
dare  hand  it  to  her  outright,  and  she  was  certain 
Miss  Amanda  wouldn't  hang  any  stocking;  so 
just  before  dark  she  slipped  into  Miss  Amanda's 
sleeping-room,  and  laid  it  on  the  brown  cushion 
just  in  front  of  the  mirror. 

[6] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

When  Elsie  had  finished  her  work  she  went  to 
her  room,  pinned  her  child's  stocking  to  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  slyly  tucked  in  the  new  suit  she 
had  made.  Her  own  stockings  lay  flat  upon  the 
floor.  Her  breath  caught  a  little  bit  as  she  noticed 
them.  "But  it  doesn't  matter,"  she  said,  "parents 
never  care  for  themselves  if  they  can  give  their 
children  pleasure." 

She  crept  into  bed  and  took  her  child  on  her 
arm.  The  night  was  very  cold.  The  frost  made 
mysterious  noises  on  the  roof  in  the  nail-holes  and 
on  the  glass.  She  went  to  bed  early  because  the 
kitchen  was  so  cold.  She  thought  "we  can  talk 
in  bed."  The  lock  of  her  door  was  broken,  and 
she  could  not  shut  it  tight.  Through  this  the  air 
came  chilly. 

*         ****** 

Miss  Amanda  put  on  her  flannel  wrapper  and 
her  bed-slippers  and  sat  down  before  the  open  fire 
in  her  sleeping-room.  Some  way  she  couldn't  keep 
her  thoughts  from  that  little  back  attic  room.  She 
went  into  the  hall,  silently  up  the  stairs,  and  stood 
outside  the  door.  Elsie  was  talking  softly,  but 
Miss  Amanda  could  hear  every  word,  thanks  to 
the  broken  lock. 

"  I  have  much  to  tell  you  to-night,  dear  child," 
she  heard  the  waif  say,  "  the  whole  story  of  the 
Christmas  Child.  It  was  years  ago.  His  mother 
was  very  young,  I  guess  about  twice  as  old  as  I 
am.  They  hadn't  any  house ;  they  were  in  a  barn. 
I  think  there  were  no  houses  to  rent  in  that  town. 
But  she  fixed  a  little  cradle  for  Him  in  the 
feed-box,  and  wrapped  Him  in  long  clothes,  as  I 
do  you,  my  darling.  The  angels  sang  a  new  song 
for  Him.  A  new  star  shone  in  the  East  for  Him. 

[7] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

Some  men  with  sheep  came  to  visit  Him,  and 
some  rich  men  brought  Him  lovely  presents.  My 
mother  told  me  all  these  things,  and  I  mustn't 
forget  them ;  it  helps  me  to  remember  to  tell  it  to 
you.  So  now,  this  lovely  Christmas  Child  was 
born  in  a  little  bit  of  a  town,  the  town  of — oh, 
my  child" — with  a  mournful  cry — "I've  for- 
gotten the  name  of  the  town !  I  used  to  say  it  to 
my  mother — it's  the  town  of,  the  town  of — I 
can't  remember." 

Miss  Amanda  could  hear  her  crying  a  little 
softly. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said  presently.  "  I  am  very 
sorry ;  I  have  not  told  the  story  often  enough.  I 
wish  I  had  some  one  to  teach  me  a  little,  but 
perhaps  it  don't  make  so  much  difference  if  I 
have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  town.  He  came 
to  teach  us.  Sure  I  won't  forget  that.  Love  can 
never  die.  That's  the  present  He  gave  to  every- 
body. So  if  nobody  else  gives  us  a  Christmas 
present,  we  always  have  the  one  He  gave  us." 

Silence  for  a  little. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  Miss  Amanda,  dear.  She 
has  no  child  to  love.  She  has  a  very  sad  and 
lonely  life." 

Her  teeth  chattered  a  little.  "  It  seems  like  a 
very  cold  night;  the  covers  are  quite  thin,  but  we 
can  never  really  suffer  while  our  hearts  are  so 
warm.  I  'm  glad  you  feel  real  well,  and  are  just 
as  plump  as  ever,  but  your  little  skin  is  just  one 
bit  wrinkled.  You  are  not  going  to  take  cold  or 
be  sick?  Oh,  I  couldn't  give  you  up!  I  should 
miss  you  so  much,  you  happy,  good  little  child." 

Miss  Amanda  heard  a  kiss.  "  Good-night,  dear. 
I  'm  so  tired.  God  bless  us  all,  and  help  us  to 

m 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

remember  Miss  Amanda,  and  let  her  find  her 
present  to-night" 

Miss  Amanda  crept  back  to  her  warm  room, 
and  waited  until  she  was  sure  the  child  was  fast 
asleep.  Then  she  took  a  down  quilt  off  the  foot 
of  her  own  bed,  picked  up  her  candle,  and  re- 
traced her  way  up-stairs. 

She  softly  dropped  the  comforter  upon  Elsie. 
She  heard,  as  a  sort  of  echo,  a  soft  sigh  of 
content.  Miss  Amanda  waited  a  moment,  then 
shading  the  candle  with  one  hand,  she  looked  at 
the  sleeping  child. 

The  face  was  pale  and  thin.  The  lashes  lay 
dark  upon  the  white  cheeks.  They  were  quite 
wet;  but,  pressed  close  to  them,  and  carefully 
covered  by  little,  toil-hardened  hands,  was  the 
grotesque  potato  in  its  white  night-gown. 

Miss  Amanda  was  surprised  by  a  queer  click 
in  her  throat,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

She  stood  before  her  fire,  candle  in  hand,  and 
bitterly  compressed  her  lips.  She  hopes  "  I  '11  find 
my  Christmas  present  to-night.  Who  will  send  it 
to  me,  and  what  will  it  be  ?  Whom  do  I  care 
for,  and  who  cares  for  me  ?  No  one.  Not  one 
human  being." 

She  crossed  the  room,  and,  placing  her  candle 
upon  the  dressing-table,  gazed  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  "  I  am  growing  old,  old  and  hard,  and  per- 
fectly friendless." 

But  why  that  start  and  cry  ?  There  before  her 
eyes,  in  the  big,  flourishing,  boyish  handwriting 
so  well  remembered,  she  reads :  cc  Our  love  can 
never  die.  We  have  nothing  in  the  world  except 
each  other,  dear  sister,  and  no  matter  what  may 
come,  our  love  can  never  change." 

[9] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

She  snatched  up  the  paper  and  threw  herself 
into  a  chair. 

"  Where  did  it  come  from"  ?  she  cried.  "  What 
evil  genius  placed  it  here  this  night?  Haven't 
I,  years  ago,  torn  and  destroyed  every  word  that 
wretched  boy  ever  wrote  me?" 

She  tossed  her  arms  over  her  head,  and  rocked 
back  and  forth,  and  groaned  aloud.  She  could 
not  help  her  thoughts  now,  or  keep  them  from 
going  back  over  the  past.  Her  heart  softened  as 
she  remembered,  and  the  scalding  tears  fell. 

She  was  only  a  child,  not  much  older  than  the 
one  up-stairs,  when  her  dying  mother  had  placed 
her  baby-brother  in  her  arms,  saying: 

"He  is  all  I  have  to  leave  you,  Amanda.  I 
know  you  love  him.  Don't  ever  be  harsh  or  un- 
forgiving to  him." 

How  had  she  kept  her  trust  ?  She  had  loved 
him.  She  had  worked  early  and  worked  late 
for  him.  She  had  given  up  everything;  but  she 
had  been  ill-repaid. 

"  111,"  do  I  say  ?  Verily,  is  this  not  true  of 
Love :  that  it  brings  its  own  blessedness  ? 

The  fire  burned  low,  and  the  room  settled  cold 
and  still.  She  seemed  to  feel  a  pair  of  boyish 
arms  about  her  neck  and  a  boy's  rough  kiss  upon 
her  cheek. 

When  she  was  but  a  young  woman  she  had 
moved  to  the  big  city,  and  started  her  dressmak- 
er's shop,  so  that  he  could  have  a  better  chance  at 
school.  What  a  loving  boy  he  was !  So  full  of  fun! 

The  wind  whistled  outside.  She  thought  it  was 
he,  and  she  heard  him  again :  "  You're  my  hand- 
some sister.  Not  one  of  the  fellows  have  as 
handsome  a  sister  as  I." 

fioj 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

How  proud  she  had  felt  when  she  had  started 
him  off  to  college.  "It  only  means  a  few  years 
of  a  little  harder  work,  and  then  I'll  see  my  boy 
able  to  take  his  stand  with  anybody/' 

But  now  she  wept  and  groaned  afresh.  cc  Oh, 
how  could  he  treat  me  so,  how  could  he !  The 
wretched  disgrace ! " 

He  had  been  expelled.  The  president's  letter 
was  severe;  but  the  young  man's  letter  regretted 
it  as  only  a  boyish  prank.  He  was  sorry.  He 
had  never  expected  anything  so  serious  would 
come  of  it.  He  deserved  the  disgrace.  It  only 
hurt  him  through  his  love  for  her.  But  only 
forgive  him,  and  he  would  show  her  what  he 
could  yet  do. 

What  had  he  done  ? 

He  had  tied  a  calf  to  the  president's  door-bell. 

She  remembered  her  answer  to  this  letter,  asking 
for  her  forgiveness.  It  stood  before  her,  written 
in  characters  of  flame. 

Had  she  in  this  been  harsh  to  the  boy,  the 
only  legacy  her  dying  mother  had  to  leave  her  ? 

"Never  speak  to  me,  nor  see  my  face  again. 
You  have  disgraced  yourself  and  me." 

It  was  not  so  long  a  letter  but  that  she  could 
easily  remember  it. 

Afterward,  the  president  himself  had  written 
again  to  her.  He  thought  he  had  been  too  hasty. 
It  was  truly  only  a  boy's  prank.  It  was,  of  course, 
ungentlemanly,  but  the  trick  was  played  on  All- 
Fool's  Night,  and  that  should  have  had  greater 
weight  than  it  did.  The  faculty  were  willing,  after 
proper  apologies  were  made,  to  excuse  it,  and  take 
her  brother  back. 

Where   was   her   brother?   He  could  not  be 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

found,  and  not  one  word  had  she  heard  of  him 
since  she  sent  that  dreadful  letter.  He  might  be 
dead.  Oh,  how  often  she  thought  that!  Now 
she  wrung  her  hands  and  covered  her  wet  cheeks 
with  them.  Her  hair  fell  about  her  shoulders,  as 
she  shook  in  her  agony  of  remorse. 

What  noise  is  this?  the  door-bell  pealing 
through  the  silent  house.  Again  and  again  it 
rings. 

She  did  not  hear  this  bell.  She  was  listening 
to  another,  and  how  it  rang  !  Louder  and  louder, 
how  it  rang,  and  well  it  might,  with  a  calf  jump- 
ing about,  trying  to  get  away  from  it.  Even  in 
all  her  misery  —  so  near  together  are  the  ecstasies 
of  emotion  —  she  laughed  aloud  and  then  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  that  she  should  never  again 
hear  any  noise  quite  so  loud  as  this  of  the  past. 

Then  she  felt  in  the  silent,  chill  room  a  tattered 
presence,  a  little  half-frozen  hand  upon  her  own. 
She  turned  her  streaming  eyes,  and  they  were 
met  by  the  big,  wide  eyes  of  Elsie. 

"Miss  Amanda,  didn't  you  hear  the  door-bell 
ringing  ?  There  is  something  —  no,  there  is  some- 
body —  waiting  down-stairs  for  you." 

Half  dazed,  half  afraid,  ashamed  of  her  tears, 
Miss  Amanda  left  the  room,  led  by  the  child 
as  by  an  unearthly  presence  into  an  unearthly 
presence. 

Who  was  this  bearded  man  that  folded  her  in 
his  strong,  true  arms  ? 


cc 


I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,  dear  child.  I  am 
such  a  happy  little  girl.  Miss  Amanda's  dear 
brother  has  come  home.  She  is  so  happy,  and 

[«*] 


THE  POTATO  CHILD 

she  loves  him  so  much.  And,  oh  darling,  they 
both  love  me !  And  it  was  all  you !  You  did  it 
all!  Oh,  there  is  no  knowing  how  much  good 
one  sweet,  loving,  contented  potato-child  can  do 
in  a  house." 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 


TOMMY  was  very  angry.  He  rushed 
up-stairs  and  into  his  mother's  room, 
utterly  forgetting  his  knock  or  "  Am 
I  welcome,  mother?" 

"  Bang ! "  echoed  the  door  behind 
him  with  a  noise  that  resounded  over  the  whole 
house.  Why  he  was  angry  was  plain  enough. 
His  eye  was  black,  nose  bleeding,  coat  torn, 
collar  hanging.  His  mother  took  it  off  as  he 
bent  over  the  wash-bowl. 

"  Oh,  Tommy/'  she  said,  "  you've  been  fight- 
ing again." 

"Well,  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  do  you 
expect  me  to  do  ?  That  Bob  Sykes  threw  rocks  at 
me  again  and  called  me  names.  He  said  I  was — " 

"Hush,"  said  his  mother,  "you  only  grow 
more  angry  as  you  speak.  Is  it  hard  for  you  now 
to  remember  the  rule,  'The  good  things  about 
others,  the  naughty  things  about  yourself  ?  " 

"  Good !  There  is  nothing  good  about  him. 
I  hate  him.  I  wish  he  was  dead,  I  do.  I  wish  I 
could  kill  him." 

Sternly  his  mother  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
led  him  before  the  mirror.  One  look  at  the  face 
he  saw  there  silenced  him. 

"  To  all  intents  and  purposes  you  have  killed 
him.  c  Whosoever  hateth  his  brother  is  a  mur- 
derer. '  You  cannot  but  remember  who  said  it, 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

Tommy.  It  is  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  sun  is 
going  down.  To-morrow  is  His  birthday.  Hadn't 
you  better  forgive  Bob  ?  " 

"  The  sun  may  go  down  and  the  sun  may  come 
up  for  all  I  care,"  he  answered,  "  I'll  never  for- 
give him." 

Without  further  word  his  mother  bathed  his 
heated  face  and  led  him  to  her  bed.  "  Lie  down 
and  rest,"  she  said,  "you  are  over  excited.  Quiet 
will  help  you." 

He  lay  and  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  quietly 
and  gravely  at  her  work  under  the  Picture.  Ever 
since  he  could  remember,  her  chair  at  this  hour 
of  the  day  had  been  in  that  corner,  and  low  over 
it  had  always  hung,  just  as  it  hung  now,  that 
Picture  so  often  explained  to  him,  "The  Walk 
to  Emmaus."  How  calm  and  quiet  his  mother 
was ;  and  the  room,  how  still  and  cool  after  that 
crowded  street !  Shutting  his  aching  eyes  he  could 
see  it  again  now;  the  swearing  mob  of  boys  and 
men  shoving  him  on,  their  brutal  faces  and  ges- 
tures, the  quarrel,  the  blows  —  those  he  had  given 
and  taken  —  he  felt  them  again,  and  the  burning 
choke  of  the  final  grip  and  wrestle. 

Oh,  how  his  head  throbbed  and  ached !  It 
seemed  as  if  the  blood  would  burst  through. 

He  opened  his  eyes  again.  The  room  was 
growing  darker.  He  almost  forgot  his  pain  for  a 
few  moments,  noticing  how  the  sunlight  was 
straightened  to  a  narrow  lane  which  reached  from 
the  extreme  southern  end  of  the  window  to  the 
floor  in  front  of  his  mother's  chair.  He  watched 
the  last  rays  as  they  slowly  left  the  floor  and  stole 
up  her  dress  to  her  lap  and  her  breast,  leaving 
all  behind  and  below  in  shadow.  Now  they  had 

[16] 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

reached  her  face.  It  was  bent  over  her  work. 
Well  he  knew  that  was  some  Christmas  gift,  may 
be  for  him,  —  some  Christmas  gift,  and  to-morrow 
was  Christmas!  He  looked  again  to  see  if  he 
could  discover  what  she  was  making,  but  the  light 
had  left  her  now,  and  had  risen  to  the  Picture. 

Queer  picture  that  it  was !  What  funny  clothes 
those  men  wore !  Those  long  gabardines,  mother 
had  called  them,  reaching  almost  to  the  ground; 
shoes  that  showed  the  toes,  and  hoods  for  hats. 
One  of  them  had  none.  How  closely  they  looked 
at  him!  They  didn't  even  see  which  way  they 
were  going,  and  what  a  long  way  it  was,  stretch- 
ing out  there,  dusty  and  hot. 

The  room  was  quite  dark  now  save  for  the  light 
on  the  narrow  road  there.  What  was  yonder  little 
village  in  the  distance?  What  kind  of  a  place 
was  Emmaus?  His  mother  had  told  him  about 
it;  only  one  street,  a  long  and  narrow  one;  and 
very  few  trees;  and  one  or  two  trading  shops 
only;  and  the  houses  low  and  flat-roofed,  with  no 
glass  in  them ;  and  the  sun  shining  down  hot  and 
straight  between  them,  —  and  (oh,  how  his  head 
ached ! )  he  was  out  there  looking  for  Bob  Sykes. 
Maybe  that  was  he  lying  on  this  rude  bench  with 
the  low  cedar-bush  over  it.  If  it  were,  he  would 
settle  matters  with  him  quick.  He  would  show 
him  —  but  it  wasn't  Bob,  it  was  only  a  sheep-dog 
asleep.  So  Tommy  turned  away  and  walked  slowly 
along  the  middle  of  the  street.  His  face  burned 
with  the  heat  of  the  sun  on  his  bruises.  He  was 
very  thirsty.  Climbing  a  little  hill  over  which  the 
road  lay,  he  saw  on  the  other  side  of  it  another  boy 
coming  toward  him.  He  was  rather  a  peculiar 
looking  boy,  with  a  face  thoughtful  but  pleasant. 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

He  was  carrying  a  heavy  sheepskin  bag  over  his 
shoulder.  Tommy  determined  to  ask  him  if  he 
knew  where  there  was  some  water. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  as  the  boy  drew  near. 

The  boy  stopped  and  smiled  at  Tommy  with- 
out making  reply. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  Tommy. 

"I  am  carry  ing  this  bag  of  tools  to  my  father," 
the  boy  answered. 

"Do  you  live  here?"  asked  Tommy.  "It 
doesn't  seem  like  much  of  a  place." 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  "it  isn't  much  of  a  place, 
but  I  live  here." 

"  What  sort  of  tools  have  you  got  in  your  bag  ? 
Who  is  your  father  ? " 

"  My  father  is  a  carpenter,"  answered  the  boy. 

Tommy  gave  a  long,  low  whistle.  "A  carpen- 
ter! Why  my  father  owns  a  store,  and  we  live 
in  one  of  the  best  houses  in  town.  Fairfield  is 
the  name  of  my  town." 

The  boy  seemed  neither  to  notice  the  whistle 
nor  the  brag;  but,  allowing  the  bag  to  slip  from 
his  shoulders  to  the  ground,  stood,  still  smiling, 
before  Tommy. 

Tommy,  who  somehow  had  forgotten  his  pain 
and  thirst,  felt  embarrassed  for  a  moment.  He 
never  before  had  made  that  announcement  with- 
out its  awakening  at  least  a  little  sensation,  even 
if  it  were  no  more  than  a  boast  in  return. 

"This  is  a  dull  old  town,"  he  finally  said. 
"  Many  jolly  boys  around  ? " 

"  A  good  many,"  answered  the  boy. 

"Do  you  get  any  time  to  play?  I  suppose 
though,  you  don't — you  have  to  work  most  of 
the  time,"  added  Tommy,  encouragingly. 

[18] 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

"I  work  a  good  deal,"  said  the  boy.  "I  get 
time  to  play,  however.  I  like  it." 

"Which,  the  work  or  the  play?" 

"  Both." 

"  Well,"  said  Tommy  after  a  pause,  "  do  you 
ever  have  any  trouble  with  the  boys  you  play 
with?" 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  "I  don't  think  I  do." 

"Well,  you  must  be  a  queer  sort  of  a  boy! 
Now,  there's  Bob  Sykes, — perhaps  you've  no- 
ticed that  my  eye  is  hurt,  and  my  face  scratched 
some.  Well,  we  had  a  little  difficulty  just  a  few 
moments  ago ;  he  insulted  me,  and  I  won't  take 
an  insult  from  any  one.  And  I  told  him  to  shut 
up  his  mouth,  and  he  sassed  me  back,  and  called 
me  names,  and  said  I  was  stuck  up  and  thought 
I  was  better  than  the  other  boys,  and  he'd  show 
me  that  I  wasn't.  Of  course,  I  wouldn't  stand 
that,  so  I've  had  a  fight, —  and  it  isn't  the  first 
one  either." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  know  that.  I  feel  very 
sorry  for  Bob.  He  hasn't  any  mother  to  go  to, 
you  know.  He  had  to  wash  the  blood  and  dirt 
off  his  face  as  best  he  could  at  the  town  pump ; 
and  then  wait  around  the  streets  until  his  father 
came  from  work.  It  is  pretty  hard  for  a  boy  to 
have  no  place  to  lay  his  head." 

"Why,  do  you  know  Bob  Sykes?"  asked 
Tommy. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  boy,  "I've  been  with 
him  a  good  deal." 

"  Queer  now,"  mused  Tommy.  "  I  don't  re- 
member of  ever  seeing  you  around.  But  now  tell 
me  what  you  would  have  done  if  he  had  provoked 
you,  and  insulted  you,  too  ? " 

['9] 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

"  I  would  have  forgiven  him/'  answered  the  boy. 

"Well,  I  did.  There  was  one  spell  I  just 
started  in  and  forgave  him  every  day  for  a  week, 
that  was  seven  times." 

"  I   would   have  forgiven   him   seventy  times 


seven." 


"That  is  just  what  my  mother  always  says. 
Perhaps  you  know  my  mother?" 

"  She  knows  me,  too,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  That  is  odd.  I  didn't  think  she  knew  any  of 
the  boys  Bob  knows." 

<c  Bob  does  not  know  me,"  replied  the  boy ;  "  I 
know  him." 

Just  then  Tommy's  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
flock  of  little  brown  birds  passing  over  their 
heads.  One  of  the  birds  flew  low  and  fluttered 
as  if  wounded,  and  fell  in  the  dust  near,  where  it 
lay  beating  its  little  wings,  panting  and  dying. 
The  boy  tenderly  picked  it  up. 

"  Somebody's  hit  him  with  a  sling-shot,"  said 
Tommy,  carelessly. 

The  boy  smoothed  the  bruised  wing,  and 
straightened  the  crushed  and  broken  body.  The 
bird  ceased  fluttering. 

"  I'm  most  sorry,"  said  Tommy,  "  I  didn't  for- 
give Bob.  It  makes  me  feel  bad,  what  you  told 
me  about  his  having  no  home.  Now,  mother  is 
something  like  you.  She  don't  mind  one's  being 
poor.  Why,  if  I  took  Bob  home  with  me,  mother 
wouldn't  seem  to  see  his  clothes  and  ragged  shoes. 
She'd  just  talk  to  him  and  treat  him  like  he 
was  the  best  dressed  boy  in  town.  There's  Bill 
Logan  came  home  to  dinner  with  me  once.  Mother 
made  me  ask  him.  He  is  a  real  poor  boy ;  has 
to  work.  His  mother  washes.  He  didn't  know 

[20] 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

what  to  do  nor  how  to  acl.  He  kept  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  most  all  the  time.  Aunt  Lilly  said 
it  was  shocking.  But  mother  said, '  Never  mind/ 
She  said  she  was  glad  he  had  his  pockets;  for  his 
hands  were  rough  and  not  too  clean,  and  she 
thought  they  mortified  him.  Father  went  and 
kissed  her  then.  Don't  tell  this.  I  don't  know 
what  makes  me  run  on  and  tell  you  all  these 
things.  I  never  spoke  of  them  before.  But  I 
know  father  was  a  poor,  young  working  man  when 
he  married  mother." 

The  boy  raised  his  hand,  and  the  sparrow  gave 
a  twitter  of  delight  and  flew  heavenward. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Tommy  in  amazement, 
"you've  cured  him!  He  is  all  right.  How  did 
you  do  it?  Do  you  feel  sorry  for  the  sparrows  as 
well  as  Bob?"  ' 

"  I  pity  every  sparrow  that  is  hurt/*  said  the 
boy,  "  and  isn't  Bob  of  more  consequence  than 
a  sparrow  ? " 

"  I  wish,"  said  Tommy,  "  I  hadn't  fought  with 
Bob.  It  was  most  all  my  fault.  I've  a  good  mind 
to  tell  him  so.  I  wish  I  was  better  acquainted 
with  you.  If  I  played  with  such  a  boy  as  you  are, 
now,  I'd  be  better  I  am  certain.  Suppose  you 
come  after  school  nights  and  play  in  our  yard. 
Never  mind  your  clothes.  Can't  you  come?" 

<c  Yes,  I  will  come  if  you  want  me  to,"  answered 
the  boy,  looking  steadfastly  at  him  a  moment; 
"but  now  I  must  be  about  my  father's  business." 

He  stooped,  lifted  the  bag  of  tools  to  his 
shoulders,  and  before  Tommy  could  stay  him  had 
moved  some  steps  away. 

"Don't  go  yet,  tell  me  some  more  about  what 
youd  do,"  and  Tommy  turned  to  follow  him. 


A  STORY  THAT  NEVER  ENDS 

But  was  it  the  boy?  And  was  that  a  bag  of 
tools  on  his  back?  It  had  grown  strangely  longer 
and  heavier  now,  so  that  it  dragged  on  the  ground, 
and  the  face  was  the  face  of  the  Picture,  and  lo, 
it  turned  toward  him,  and  the  hand  was  raised  in 
benediction  and  farewell,  "  I  am  with  you  always," 
and  he  was  gone. 

"  Oh !  come  back,  come  back,"  sobbed  Tommy, 
reaching  out  his  arms  and  struggling  to  run  after 
him. 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  his  mother,  wiping  the  blind- 
ing tears  from  his  eyes,  "your  sleep  didn't  do 
you  much  good." 

"  I've  not  been  asleep,"  said  Tommy ;  "  I've 
been  talking  with — with  —  Him,"  and  he  spoke 
low  with  a  longing  reverence  and  pointed  to  the 
Picture. 

"It  was  a  dream,  my  child." 

"  Mother,  it  was  a  vision.  I  saw  Him,  when 
He  was  a  little  boy  in  His  own  town,  Nazareth. 
And,  mother,  I  even  told  Him  it  wasn't  much 
of  a  place  to  live  in.  He  talked  to  me  about 
Bob.  He  said  you  knew  Him.  I  saw  him  cure 
a  little  bird.  And  oh,  mother,  He  said  He  would 
be  with  me  always.  He  is  a  little  boy  like  me! 
I  know  what  to  do  now.  He  showed  me.  I  must 
find  Bob ;  I  must  have  him  forgive  me.  I  want 
to  bring  him  home  with  me  into  my  bed  for 
to-night." 

He  stopped.  "  Mother,"  he  said  solemnly, 
"to-morrow  is  His  birthday." 


[22] 


A  NAZARETH  CHRISTMAS 


N 


OW,  tell  us,  mother,  again  —  as  ever 
this  night — the  story  of  our  brother's 
birth." 

"Yes,  dear  mother,  and  not  for- 
getting the  star;  for  us  no  story  is 
like  this,  not  even  the  story  of  young  King 
David,  although  in  truth,  that  is  a  goodly  tale." 
"Then  sit,  children;  lend  me  your  aid  with 
the  gifts ;  and  now,  as  dark  comes  on,  while  yet 
your  father  and  brother  are  not  returned  from 
their  work,  I  will  repeat  again  the  oft-told  story. 
I  see  not  how  I  can  forget  aught,  for  it  seems 
ever  before  me. 

"You  must  know  it  was  between  the  wet  time 
and  the  dry  when  your  father  and  I  went  up  to 
Judea  to  be  enrolled.  Bethlehem  was  our  city. 
There  were  a  great  many  journeying  in  our  com- 
pany to  the  House  of  Bread.  I  was  not  strong 
in  those  days ;  and  so  your  father  obtained  an  ass 
for  me  to  ride,  while  he  Walked  by  my  side.  We 
traveled  slowly,  and  the  early  night  had  already 
set  in  when  we  passed  where  Rachel  rests,  and 
reached  the  village.  In  front  of  the  inn  at  which 
your  father  intended  stopping,  he  left  my  side  a 
moment,  while  he  went  to  arrange  for  our  stay ; 
but  he  straightway  returned,  saying  there  was  no 
room  for  us.  So  we  were  compelled  to  go  farther ; 
and  it  was  late, —  how  late  I  know  not, —  before 


A  NAZARETH  CHRISTMAS 

we  found  rest ;  for  at  every  inn  where  your  father 
knocked  the  answer  was  the  same :  c  No  room ! ' 
c  No  room ! '  Your  father  bore  up  bravely,  though 
he  had  the  harder  part;  while,  in  my  childish- 
ness, I  was  fain  to  kneel  in  the  chalk-dust  of  the 
road,  and  seek  what  rest  I  could.  But  he  upheld 
me,  until,  at  last,  one  inn-keeper,  seeing  what  a 
child  I  was  in  truth  took  pity  on  me  and  said : 

CCCI  am  able  to  do  no  more  for  you  than  for 
my  poor  cattle ;  but  I  can  give  you  shelter  with 
them  in  the  cavern  stable  and  a  bed  if  only  straw/ 

"And,  children,  I  was  very  thankful  for  this. 
I  had  been  told  before  that  to  me  a  Prince  should 
be  born ;  that,  girl  as  I  was,  as  mother •,  should 
clasp  in  my  arms  a  Savior-child.  I  believed  the 
words  of  the  angel, —  for  was  I  not  of  the  house 
of  David  ? —  and  ever  treasured  them  in  my  heart. 
Now,  how  strange  should  it  be  that  not  in  my 
peaceful  Nazareth,  not  in  this,  our  own  home,  but 
there,  and  that  weary  night  of  all  nights,  beside 
me  on  the  straw  should  be  laid  my  infant  son ! 

"  I  knew  immediately  what  to  call  him,  for,  as 
I  have  often  told  you,  the  angel  had  named  him 
c Jesus.'  'Even  so/  the  angel  had  said;  cfor  he 
shall  save  his  people  from  their  sins/  I  have 
wondered  much  what  that  means  for  your  brother. 

"  Watch  well  your  work,  children !  Burn  not 
the  cakes.  Fold  with  care  the  mantles  and  the 
coats.  This  garment  we  will  lay  aside  for  patches. 
It  repays  not  labor  to  put  new  to  old ;  and,  James, 
test  well  the  skins  before  you  fill  them  with  the 
wine.  We  know  not  to  whom  your  brother  bears 
the  gifts  of  his  handiwork  to-night,  but  he  knows 
who  needs  them  most,  and  naught  must  be  lost 
or  wasted. 


A  NAZARETH  CHRISTMAS 

"  Where  was  I  in  the  story,  children  ? " 

"The  baby  on  the  hay,  sweet  mother." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  mind  me  now.  I  took  him  in  my 
arms.  To  me  no  child  had  ever  looked  the  same. 
But  now,  a  marvel !  The  rock  stable,  which  before 
had  seemed  dark  indeed,  lighted  only  by  our  dim 
lamps,  suddenly  shone  full  of  light.  I  raised  my 
eyes,  and  there,  before  and  above  me,  seemingly 
through  a  rent  in  the  roof,  I  beheld  a  most  large 
and  luminous  star.  Verily,  I  had  not  seen  the 
opening  in  the  roof  when  I  had  lain  me  down, 
but  now  I  could  do  naught  else  but  look  from 
my  baby's  face  beside  me,  along  the  floods  of 
light  to  the  star  before. 

"  And  now,  without,  rose  a  cry : c  We  are  come 
to  behold  the  King.  We  are  guided.'  And,  enter- 
ing the  stable,  clad  in  their  coats  of  sheepskin, 
with  their  slings  and  crooks  yet  in  their  hands, 
came  shepherds,  I  cannot  now  recall  the  number. 

"  I  had  wrapped  my  babe  in  his  clothes,  and 
had  lain  him  in  his  manger.  And  now  it  was  so 
that  as  soon  as  their  eyes  fell  upon  his  face,  they 
sank  to  their  knees  and  worshiped  him. 

" c  Heard  you  not,'  spake  a  white-bearded  shep- 
herd to  me ; c  heard  you  not,  young  Mother  Mary, 
the  angels'  song?' 

cc<Meseems  I  have  long  heard  it,  and  can  hear 
naught  else,  good  father,'  I  answered. 

"cTo  us  it  came,'  he  said,  cin  the  first  watch 
of  this  night,  and  with  it  music  not  ef  earth.' 

"  Afterward  came  the  learned  ones  from  the 
Eastern  countries,  —  I  know  not  now  the  land. 
The  gifts  they  brought  him  made  all  the  place 
seem  like  a  king's  palace ;  and  with  all  their  gifts 
they  gave  him  worship  also. 


A  NAZARETH  CHRISTMAS 

"And  I  lay  watching  it  all.  And  it  shall  be 
always  so,  I  thought. 

"  But  these,  though  wise  men,  were  not  of  our 
race,  and  could  not  follow  the  guiding  star  with 
our  faith.  Wherefore,  so  much  stir  had  they  made 
throughout  the  kingdom,  inquiring  publicly  con- 
cerning this,  your  brother,  that,  through  the  jeal- 
ousy of  Herod,  great  was  the  trouble  and  misery 
that  fell  upon  the  innocent  after  their  going. 

"  But  hearken,  children ;  I  hear  even  now  your 
father  and  your  brother  coming  from  their  work. 
Place  quickly  the  gifts  within  the  basket." 

It  is  a  gentle  figure  that  bends  among  mother 
and  children,  and  a  tender  voice  that  questions : 

"Shall  I  bear  forth  the  gifts?" 

"They  are  ready  now,  my  son.  Even  this  mo- 
ment thy  brother  James  placed  the  last  within 
the  basket,  but  canst  thou  not  partake  of  the 
evening  meal  before  thou  goest  with  them  ?  Thou 
art  but  a  lad,  to  go  forth  alone  after  a  day  of  toil." 

"  Nay,  but  I  must  be  about  the  Master's  work; 
and,  look,  the  stars  are  rising.  I  should  tarry  not, 
for  they  who  toil  long  rest  early." 

"  For  whom  is  thy  service  to-night,  my  son  ? 
Last  birth-night  it  was  to  the  sorrowing ;  before 
that  to  the  blind,  and  even  yet  to  the  deaf  and 
the  lame.  And  whither  tend  thy  footsteps  now  ? " 

"To  the  tempted  ones,  mother." 

"  And  thou  shalt  stay  their  feet,  dear  boy,  for 
rememberest  not  the  Immanuels  of  last  year? 
How  the  sorrowful  found  strange,  staying  joy  in 
their  hearts?  How  the  blind  said,  as  thou  named 
their  gifts,  and  placed  them  in  their  hands,  that  it 
seemed  they  could  straightway  behold  them? 
How  even  the  dumb  gave  forth  pleasant  sounds 

[26] 


A  NAZARETH  CHRISTMAS 

like  music  from  their  helpless  tongues  ?  and  how 
even  the  lame  well-nigh  leaped  from  their  lame- 
ness, for  the  light  of  thy  young  face  ?  But  when 
thou  comest  to  thy  crown  and  throne  thou  need- 
est  not  got  forth  alone  upon  thy  birth-night,  but 
send  out  thy  gifts  with  love  and  plenty." 

"  I  know  not,  my  mother." 

"  But  all  will  be  thine  ?  What  said  the  angel : 
'The  Lord  God  shall  give  unto  him  the  throne 
of  his  father  David;  and  of  his  kingdom  there 
shall  be  no  end ! '  It  may  be  soon,  we  know  not, 
for  lo !  King  David  was  but  a  boy,  and  at  his 
daily  toil,  when  he  was  called  to  reign  over  the 
house  of  Jacob.  Forget  not,  thou  art  born  the 
King." 

"Oh,  gladden  not  thy  heart,  loved  mother, 
with  this  joy.  I  seek  not  to  behold  the  future, 
but  I  see  not  in  this  world  my  kingdom,  for  the 
rose  blossoms  I  pluck  from  out  the  hedge-rows 
fall ;  and  it  is  their  thorn  branch  that  ever  within 
my  hands  twines  into  a  crown." 


HERE  ENDS  THE  POTATO  CHILD  AND 
OTHERS  BY  MRS.  CHARLES  J.  WOODBURY 
THE  FRONTISPIECE  AFTER  A  BAS-RELIEF 
BY  ELIZABETH  FERREA.  PUBLISHED  BY 
PAUL  ELDER  fef  COMPANY  AND  DONE  IN- 
TO A  BOOK  FOR  THEM  AT  THEIR  TOMOYE 
PRESS,  UNDER.  THE  DIRECTION  OF  JOHN 
HENRY  NASH,  IN  THE  CITY  OF  SAN  FRAN- 
CISCO, NINETEEN  HUNDRED  &  ELEVEN 


